


CAS 58-08-2

by akacz



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:15:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akacz/pseuds/akacz
Summary: She's caffeine, Widowmaker thinks.





	CAS 58-08-2

She's caffeine, Widowmaker thinks.

Fighting her is a headache. Her nickname is apt for the traces she leaves in her system, an aura of blue light at the edges of her eyes lingering for hours, the inevitable dull, throbbing pain that pushes through her veins from the exertion. If she could just be patient, if she could just wait, for when the time is right to take her out, Widowmaker knows she could be rid of the headache, but the headache that builds up without her is even worse than the headaches with her.

She finds herself seeking her out, like some kind of stimulant, and she supposes that's what she is. Tracer makes her heart race, both from running across the rooftops and from a unique kind of zeal that takes over when she imagines strangling that pale, stretched throat.

No, the headache without her is definitely worse, the restlessness, the unbearable pain of nothing to focus on. When she's in front of her, she can work through the pain. It fades away, to different but familiar rhythm that she understands, the kind of fighting she knows what to do with. Bullet holes and broken bones. It gets her a reason to look forward to getting out of the base. Knowing that she’ll have a shot putting a gun to that foolish little head again.

Her escapes leave behind a bitterness in Widowmaker's mouth. Intense and burning. She's not sure which is worse, the taste of that or the cloying sweetness underneath that Tracer mixes it with, with sad eyes, that huffy pout, it's all so terribly… mild.

Stupid Brit has probably never had a proper demi-tasse in her life. The comparison would be lost on her.

She thinks she's imagining it, one of those flashes of blue lights goes flying past her, though it's less past her and more below her, naturally, but the effect is the same. She does a double take, looks at the street, puts lots of a nice espresso after this on hold. She's got a headache to follow.

A tap of her visor, and everything lights up to intense red that fades into something she can navigate. Tracer’s heat signature flies past again, running without bothering to blink, Widowmaker notes bemusedly. It doesn't make much difference. She's simply pleased to have her target and her sights. How long the game took, well, that part she could wait for. She breathed, let out a long exhale. Already, she could feel the edge fading away from the pressure above her left temple.

Headache, stimulant, and overdose of caffeine Tracer might be, too fast and to better and to paired with sweetness, but it was her routine she had come to expect and knew what to do with.

She felt most alive, most awake, when she was telling herself to keep up the time jumper. Improve her reaction time. Concentrate. Focus everything to ever twitch of her muscles to anticipate where she was going to be.

Soundless but for the hiss of her helpful device, Widowmaker grappled to the church tower across the street. There was something perversely satisfying about the idea of trying to lure her up here and hopefully defiling a chapel in the process of defiling her.

Watching down below she sees Tracer, breathing like she'd been sprinting for half an hour, approaching the tower close enough to see a face that looked tired and her hair and clothes bedraggled like she hadn't slept in three weeks. Oh, Widowmaker wondered. Were you up with your own caffeine, Cherie. Were you unable to sleep at night, kept up by your own obnoxious energy and obsessive need to be chasing after her.

Widowmaker hummed a laugh to herself.

Come close, Tracer, Cherie. Let the widows kiss put you to bed.


End file.
